Permission in the Margins - Letter One
A letter exchange with Sally Jane Hurst that discusses who has the right to draw from the well of local cultural heritage
This is part 1 in a 6-part correspondence between Amman-based American food writer (and chef obviously),
, and me, Farrah Berrou. I’ll be writing parts 1, 3, and 5 here and Sally will respond in parts 2, 4, and 6 on her Substack, Chef Sally Jane.Links will be added as the letters get published: letter 1, letter 2, letter 3, letter 4, letter 5, and letter 6. A final recap post will be shared on October 4th.
Hi Sally,
After reading your July newsletter, “What it's really like to open a restaurant”, I’m grateful you were up for unpacking this tricky subject some more in our pre-planned letter exchange. The bit that made me inclined to suggest it was this part:
“So no, I’m not of this place. I’ve never claimed to be, but I’ve done a lot of work to try and deeply understand the amazing food of this place and I am careful to give credit to where I get my inspiration, while doing my very best not to tread on traditions. While in South Africa I had a very clever restaurant PR guru (she managed Jamie Oliver for years) tell me that I needed to create “permissions” in my story, explain why I was “allowed” to share my food stories. I get it, but it’s been frustrating to feel, much like I am at the Wild Jordan kitchen right now, that I am but a guest in a place I very much call home.”
To be honest, I’m also wary about this assignment that we’ve given ourselves! Explaining my own feelings about it will be a challenge too, albeit in a different way.
I’ve followed your work since we met back in 2018 and from what I’ve seen, you’ve shown self-awareness when it comes to this delicate balance. You share your experiences authentically without stepping on anyone’s toes. As a chef and traveler, you naturally absorb from your environment and I can see your appreciation and love for places like Beirut and Amman, even when things aren’t bright and shiny. I also understand where you’re coming from; my mom is a visibly1 American woman married to a Lebanese man and she’s lived here in Beirut just as long as I have. You’d think that that means she’s paid her dues and can talk about it like a local, right? Nope. I still have moments where I tell her, “mom, you’re right but you can’t say that.”
Even if good intentions are there, criticism can still present as a tad audacious or patronizing. This is where language and packaging come in. I also wonder if there’s something about being a national of certain countries over others. The history and foreign policy determines what dynamic ultimately feels like extraction or condescension. My mom has had disgruntled people here lob their America-induced frustrations at her as if she’s a representative of the U.S. government. They use the Arabic plural pronoun, ento, as if to say, You Americans…despite her living in Beirut right along with them. But I mean, are we as Americans responsible for our government’s actions? Well, as a so-called democracy, aren’t we?2
There’s a reason that Lebanese joke that any foreigner who’s been here a while inexplicably (or is doing a semester of Arabic at AUB) is a spy. This place was a hotbed of international espionage for decades. While they may not rub elbows at the St. Georges or the Commodore anymore, these spies are still hanging out in the hip haunts making mental notes and taking names. I think that rep is why anyone here would have reservations when it comes to “outsiders”. It’s like wearing a blue eye 🧿 to ward off bad vibes in that it’s not that serious but we also kinda believe it.
The region has suffered so much inaccurate representation in all forms of media and yet, its cuisine, art, and traditions have been celebrated and severed from their origins. As we see endless examples of propaganda and manufacturing consent for more military escalation across the region, the lack of trust in outsiders will only worsen. We’ve watched so many trash articles and tweets come out on Gaza and Palestine - some from reporters who used to be based here in Beirut - that have left us feeling betrayed. Even after years of doing right by the community and the sources that once embraced you, that camaraderie can be shattered instantly. I’ve noticed that after 11 months of bombardment along the Lebanese border, southerners have become less inclined to talk to international press because of how their stories get warped. The care, context, and consideration that’s required for a writer to cover such dire and active situations is a huge responsibility. That access can’t and shouldn’t be granted to just anyone.
I occasionally ask myself if all of this suspicion is deserved. I can’t help being paranoid guarded though. After all, Beirut and/or Lebanon has been a revolving door for foreign journalists/chefs/creatives/NGO workers who parachute in and use our cultures (and worse, our tragedies) to build their profiles and portfolios, sometimes even long after they’ve left the country. Their time here becomes a Middle Eastern internship that furthers their careers.
There’s an assumption that Western media/journalists are more objective and credible because of their distance from the subject. Admittedly, this preference for the removed storyteller is also an internal problem. Western journalists or creators get more attention, dollars, or praise simply because of their employer, reach, or passport. So much of the local English press about Lebanon has been littered with bylines of foreign names. I question who these writers are and where they come from. How long have they been here? Do they speak Arabic? Do they leave Hamra/Ashrafieh? Do they understand the sensitivities/beefs between communities? Are they invested in building their life here or is this just an exotic chapter in their memoir?
asks similar questions in “Lesson in Italian.” She, an American wine writer, talks about a trip to Lazio where she meets two Italian winemakers and tries to decipher more about them as a visiting enthusiast who doesn’t speak Italian. Getting away from home made her realize how much she uses it as a reference and how there’s generally been little effort put into rediscovering what’s most familiar, American wine in this case. Once again, what I find so refreshing is her self-awareness of her own limitations,“How was I supposed to write a story about a wine whose language I don’t speak, whose vineyards I’ve walked for a day, and whose politics I’ve only read about?”
Through observations alone, she sees that there is so much depth to a place and people that she couldn’t possibly gleam from quick interactions. When she returns to the east coast, she concludes:
“Sitting among the vines with the winemakers, I asked the kinds of questions that a lifetime of cultural immersion permitted me to uniquely ask—they answered, and I understood.”
As a Lebanese-American who lives here, before pitching or launching initiatives, I ask, am I the right person for this? Should I be at the center of this? It’s not about ability, it’s about having that lifetime of cultural immersion. It’s about knowing when you don’t know enough. There have been so many instances of foreigners explaining our homes back to us or “discovering” or “elevating” ingredients. It’s not just in the delivery, it’s the transactional nature of it: What are you getting out of it and how are you giving credit? What’s the impact of this work? And lastly, will the interest you have extend in sickness and in health or is it strictly only for the positive bits? [I’m using the general you here]
I think a lot about this and wonder why a foreigner wrote something about us, sometimes without ever visiting, instead of someone from/based here? We don’t lack talent nor do we lack the conviction to tell our own stories.
I’ve chosen to be in Beirut, a difficult locale to thrive in, but I want to pour into my community here and I feel connected to the city’s pulse. With that said, I still want to travel, learn/unlearn, and be able to form/change my perspective thanks to other cultures of the world and the people that are a part of them. There’s also a web that connects permissions with overtourism, migration, and gentrification3 but I won’t go there just yet. I want to mull it over some more and this is already getting too long.
I don’t think that only locals or those of a certain heritage are “allowed” to do this work. After all, they can also cause harm or have their own biases and hidden agendas. I think it comes down to respect and humility. How do you, Sally, navigate this balance of inspiration and originality? After your test drive running a kitchen over the summer, what are the questions you ask yourself when thinking about opening your own restaurant in Jordan? How do you credit the cultures that have impacted your practice as a chef and whole person?
Love & olives,
Farrah
My mom is a blonde, green-eyed white woman. Lebanese people can be of this phenotype too but mom also stands out as a foreigner thanks to her mannerisms and Arabic accent.
I know we’re not - they don’t listen to us!
I saw a video refer to gentrification as neocolonialism and when you think about how infiltrating/occupying neighborhoods leads to local residents being pushed out...it doesn’t feel like a stretch?
So touched to see my work mentioned in this context. When I was at the Wine Writers Symposium last year, Elaine Chukan Brown said “wine writing is a form of service; who are you serving?” And that has become a guiding compass for me.